The Whipped Heiress Ch. 06

I ended up in an office. I stood naked and exposed while behind a mahogany desk sat a well-tailored woman with a serious look on her face. She was middle-aged and her executive desk, tweed blazer and practical demeanor strongly hinted that she was an authority figure in this place. Being naked and forced to expose my body to her while she wore custom-tailored tweed and allowed her gaze to linger on my shaved pubes, erect nipples, and toned abs. Her intense gaze made me feel both abused and sexually aroused.

The middle-aged woman looked up from her computer, made eyes contact with me and said, "You're the American, Heather Mädchen?"

I hesitated, then she swiveled the computer screen around, revealing images of me. Other than the fact that I was naked, most of them looked a lot like prison mugshots. I was unsmiling and made to stand straight with my hands at my sides. One photo was of me from the front, one from the rear, one left profile and one right profile.

"Yes, mistress, that's me," I finally replied timidly.

The woman gave me a brief nod, clicked on her mouse a few times, and then said, "You've been selected to participate in an annual ritual. It's my job to make sure that your participation goes smoothly and that your responses are entertaining. You will follow all my orders and suggestions, or you will be punished. You will always address me as Mistress Vitsaxis. If you cannot pronounce my name correctly, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

I said that I understood, however, I must have mispronounced her name as I soon found myself over her knee with my ass up in the air. Mistress Vitsaxis sat on her large, polished mahogany desk and furiously spanked my poor bottom until I was screaming in agony and my innocent buttocks felt red hot and scalded.

I remained over her lap after the spanking. For a while, the only sound in the office was the sound of me sobbing. Then Mistress Vitsaxis squeezed one of my abused buttocks and said, "I was watching you on the security camera feed. Of all the slaves here today, your bottom is easily the cutest. That's one of the reasons you were chosen. I would have been disappointed if I was didn't have an excuse to redden your cute little rump. Thank goodness you Americans are so clumsy when you try to pronounce Sklavian names."

After my spanking was over, I was a mess of tears and my bottom felt scalded and tender. I was allowed a few moments to sob and adapt to the fresh pain before Mistress Vitsaxis spoke once again.

"Every year there's a ritual we celebrate called the Riziki Allagi," she explained.

"For this ritual fifteen slaves are selected. They're given clothing, dressed up like free men and women and taken to Neapolis. They're put up in a hotel and given freedom, money and respect for three days. After they have a taste of freedom, their clothes are ripped from their bodies. It's a grand spectacle where the public gets to watch as free men and women are publicly transformed into naked slaves, right before their eyes."

"It sounds cruel, Mistress Vitsaxis," I told her. "To give a slave her freedom, only to strip it away. Many of them have forgotten what freedom and dignity feel like. To remind them of that only to snatch it away seems even crueler than endlessly keeping them in bondage."

"Of course, it's cruel," she replied. "That's the whole point. The looks of dread on their faces when they're forcibly stripped and re-enslaved is delicious. Their suffering is so much more intense after they've experienced a few days of privilege and self-esteem."

I was told to get up off her lap and was given permission to touch my poor bottom and try and sooth away some of the sting from my recent spanking.

"You're going to be a free woman for three days," she explained. "Based on what we've seen today, your reactions when you're re-enslaved should be delicious. You see, those of us organizing this even don't just want slaves with exquisite bodies. We also want slaves who will give scrumptious reactions for the cameras. I think that you'll give us an adorable performance when they rip your clothes off."

* * *

It felt awkward wearing clothes again. It took time to get used to them. I had spent so much time being naked, it felt wrong to be covering up and having fabric wrapped around much of my body. Mistress Vitsaxis assured me that I'd get used to it. She'd seen slaves adjusting to clothing after long periods of being naked and told me that the feelings of "wrongness" typically faded within a matter of hours.

Mistress Vitsaxis and the other event overseers eventually got all of the slaves processed, entered into an official database, dressed and then we were all herded onto a bus to be taken to Neapolis. The event organizers made sure that we got off the bus, checked into our rooms and didn't try to escape.

We were given money, suitcases full of clothes, identity cards, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, combs, mouthwash and other things people packed when they checked into a hotel. It felt surreal. I had all the props and property of a tourist, rather than a naked slave. Embracing my new role took some adjusting.

I naturally gravitated towards the other slaves who had checked into the hotel at the same time as me. We all had a great deal in common. We were all young, attractive, sexual submissives and most of us had never been to Sklavia before.

All of the slaves spoke English, although I was the only American. Most of the slaves were Ukrainian, four of them were Hungarian, two were Czech, three were Russian, one was Greek, and one was Norwegian.

Alya was born in Ukraine. She was the daughter of a computer engineer and a teacher. I was born in the United States. I was the daughter of a millionaire and an even wealthier millionaire. They owned hotels and nightclubs

We came from hugely different socioeconomic backgrounds, but I gravitated towards her anyway. We were both lesbians and both had a dark, kinky craving to be bound, disciplined, and sexually objectified. She would invite me into her room and after raiding the mini bar we would get comfortably numb and share stories about our femdom fantasies.

"As strange as it may sound, my first sexual fantasies are centered around the fairy tale of Cinderella," Alya confessed.

"In my fantasies, there's no Prince Charming. There's just me and my wicked stepmother and my two wicked stepsisters."

I nodded as if to say that I understood. I had a massive library of sexual fantasies in my head. There were no men in any of them. It was like there was an entire world where men didn't exist. That's where my imagination took me when I was gripped with sexual passion.

"At first, my stepmother is a just stern authority figure. She turns me over to her daughters and gives them authority over me. They're delighted that their status is superior to mine, and they give me menial chores to do. I'd be ordered to scrub the floors and clean out the fireplace. If I shirked my duties or didn't perform up to their high standards, one of the sisters would pull me over her lap and spank my bare bottom until I was sobbing and crying real tears."

I'd had similar fantasies, but rather than comparing my own feverish femdom dreams to hers, I merely urged Alya to continue with her story.

"My stepmother fantasies weren't sexual at first...I don't think they were...but then the wicked stepsister took my clothes and I was forced to scrub the floors while naked. I did all my chores stark naked. And the spankings became more common. They became fixated on my ass. And then the stepmother called me into her room each night and had me sleep in her bed."

Alya's story became much more sexual after that. The wicked stepmother would always spank her before bedtime.

"Later on, my fantasies evolved. In the middle of the night, sometimes she would grab my sore buttocks and squeeze. Other times she would grab one of my breasts and sink her fingernails in deep, leaving painful red marks."

The more drinks Alya got into her, the more willing she was to share delicious details. After her third drink, I was bewitched by her story.

"Then my fantasies began to include vaginal penetration. The wicked stepmother would finger my pussy late at night when everyone else in the house was asleep. In these fantasies she would typically climb on top of me and crush her lips against mine. She would gag me with her tongue and then her hand would be between my legs, working my pubic lips apart so she could force a finger inside me."

The revelations continued, and my sexual throbbed as she revealed more details. Before long, it turned into a rape fantasy with Alya being forced to lick her wicked stepmother's pussy. Of course, any reluctance on Alya's part was punished. Her breasts were slapped, and her nipples were cruelly pinched. It was a common theme in submissive fantasies. We couldn't just have sex with a woman. We had to be forced into it.

"I can relate," I said, feeling the pleasantly warm and mellow as the rum and Coke infiltrated my bloodstream. "In my most intense fantasies, I'm not even gay. I'm some innocent, straight girl who's forced into gay sex by powerful, dominant lesbians who use me to satisfy their own sexual needs. And if I resist, they hurt me."

"They punish you," Alya corrected. "They're in charge and you're supposed to obey them."

I nodded my head in agreement and added, "I'm helpless to disobey. And they make sure that I know it."

"Helplessness is key," Alya added. "That feeling of helplessness and vulnerability is so important. It's like an aphrodisiac."

"I have several mistresses right now, and sometimes when I'm called upon to sexually service them, sometimes I resist or hesitate. Not because I'm turned off at the prospect of lapping at their slits, but because I crave the ritual of being forced. Getting painful whip marks across my naked flesh before I use my mouth to on her, makes me feel fulfilled somehow."

"You're proud of the red handprints or whip marks on your ass, aren't you?"

I was taken aback. Nobody had ever asked me that question before. It took me a few seconds for my drunken brain to formulate a coherent response.

"I do feel proud," I said breathlessly. "Whip marks help me feel like a real slave, like I'm not just pretending...they're sort of proof that I'm the real thing. They' identify me for what I am."

I took another sip of my drink and then added, "They're almost like a badge of honor."

"Do you have any of those marks on you right now?"

I nodded my head in affirmation.

"I was beaten with a riding crop the day we were loaded onto the bus and brought here," I elaborated. "The marks have faded somewhat, but you can still see them."

She raised her eyebrows at that. The atmosphere in the room changed noticeably and in an enthusiastic tone of voice, she said, "Show me."

I was wearing a full length bodycon dress that hugged my curves tightly. I decided that it would be much easier to just take off the dress to show Alya my whip marks. Yanking the material of the dress up to my waist would be extremely awkward.

"I'll have to take the dress off. Could you unzip me?" I asked Alya. The zipper was in the back where I couldn't see, and it would be easier for her to get it.

I shed the dress and dropped it on the floor. I hadn't worn any underwear so; every inch of my naked body was on display once the dress was removed. Being naked while and examined by Alya while she was fully clothed was an immediate turn-on for me. I could feel my pussy getting wet as Alya examined my buttocks and the backs of my thighs.

Her hands smoothed over the curves on my buttocks, stopping here and there to trace visible lines where the crop had marked my skin.

"These are impressive," she finally said admiringly. "Stripes like these must have been welts to start." Alya's hands massaged my punished bottom, her fingertips rubbing across the most vivid of the marks on my skin.

"Whoever whipped you was quite severe," Alya said as her eyes and hands examined every inch of my buttocks. "I'll be you didn't do anything much to deserve it either."

"I didn't do anything to deserve it," I replied. "Basically, it was a test to see how I'd react...to see if my responses were entertaining."

"That's cruel," she said as she continued to admire the stripes on my backside. "Of course, the cruelty is the point, isn't it? The cruelty makes all this sexier somehow."

I didn't understand the psychology behind it, but Alya was right. There was something intensely arousing about the spankings, the whippings, the forced nudity, the bondage etc. I would be disappointed if somehow, someday, all the cruelty stopped.

Bonding with Alya was effortless. She understood me so well I didn't even have to try and explain myself.

"Suffering is sexy," Alya opined. "I understood that instinctively at a very early age. There are millions of 'normal' people out there who don't get it. They think that there's something wrong with people like you. But I get it."

"Suffering is sexy," I repeated in hushed tones. "I've never heard it articulated like that before. I like the way you say that."

Part of it was Alya's exotic accent, but the words she said resonated with me. And we both agreed that the more public the suffering, the sexier it was.

Alya and I became very fond of each other. It was like we were sisters or intensely devoted friends. i bonded very closely with Alya and kept her close during the three days I was at the hotel, however, I met with the other slaves and found myself relating easily to them as well. They all had similar attitudes and associated stories to tell.

One of them had grown up in a deeply religious household and her submissive tendencies and desire to be punished seemed to be remarkably intertwined with her religious upbringing. My family had never been religious, so I found her perspective on how religion and BDSM tendencies mixed to be fascinating,

"When I would go to confession, I would be made to go into a dark room and get down on my knees. An authority figure in another room would demand that I tell him my sins. He would judge me and give me a penance to atone for my sins."

She took a deep breath, and her face became flush. She was either sexually aroused or deeply shamed...possibly both.

"Every time I was forced to kneel and confess my sins to a mysterious authority figure, I felt a confusing and intense surge of emotions. I didn't understand what was going on, but every time, my chest would get tight, I would feel feverish, and my loins would throb with a dark, sexual excitement. There was this bizarre mixture of lust and anxiety."

"I wanted to experience this sort of dark, delicious excitement more often and with greater intensity.... but I was young and stupid. My attempts to find a stern authority figure to inspire that sort of dark, throbbing excitement in my loins was slow and awkward."

Every slave had a story. None of us had smooth transitions into the BDSM lifestyle. Finding a master...or mistress is made difficult by social attitudes. My desire to be whipped and sexually abused and objectified is viewed by many Americans to be some sort of mental failing or mental illness. In America they find people like me to be embarrassing. try to hide the existence of people like me and pretend we don't exist.

But here in Sklavia, people like me are celebrated and publicly exhibited.

"I can relate," a Russian slave told me. "It's hard to find others like yourself when the government is trying to drive us all into hiding. But here, I'm considered something of a celebrity. Everyone wants to see me. And if I have whip marks on my naked body, they love me even more."

One night, six of the slaves were in the hotel dining room. We had ordered drinks and after they arrived but before the waitress came back to take our food orders, one of the male slaves said, "As a slave, the masters don't just take away your clothes, they take away your pride and your dignity. I don't know why, but I find that to be incredibly arousing."

None of us understood it, but all of us slaves were ruled by it. Being naked, abused, degraded, punished and publicly humiliating was somehow a powerful aphrodisiac for us.

We were a misunderstood people. In some ways, we couldn't even understand ourselves, but at least in Sklavia, we could come together and form a community of sorts.

I formed a powerful emotional bond with Alya, and I intended to stay in touch with her with video chats and email after I returned to the United States, Skye was a delightful and engaging woman and always managed to say the right thing no matter what, Leona was always smiling and festive and everywhere she went, it was like a party, Damon was like a puppy dog, constantly wanting to make friends and eager to please, Katerina had kind eyes and was a great listener. She would listen to all of my stories with rapt interest and would make endearing or insightful comments when I paused. Lolika had a cover girl face and a dancer's body and she flirted charmingly with everyone, both male and female.

I came to love these people. They were like family to me. And on the third day at the hotel, we got all fifteen of us in one of the hotel's ballrooms to eat, tell stories, dance, and enjoy each other's company.

Sadly, the party was cut short.

It turned out we had inadvertently made the government's job easier for them. Our party was filled with comradery and good cheer, but it also got all of the slaves in the same room at the same time. That made it a logistical dream come true when it came time for the government to round up the slaves and re-enslave all of us.

Alya and I were on the dance floor, dancing a foxtrot when government agents entered the room. I didn't notice them at first as I had gotten somewhat bewitched by Alya. The feel of her body against mine, the light in her eyes, her contagious smile, our graceful chemistry as dance partners blinded me to everything else going on in the room.

The government agents entered through two separate doors, blocked all the exists and rapidly surrounded everyone. Alya and I were both grabbed and yanked away from each other. My arms were forcibly twisted behind my back and my clothes were roughly from my body.

When they stripped me naked, they didn't just pull down my underwear. Oh no. That would have been too civilized. With scores of people watching, they grabbed the waistband of my panties and pulled on them viciously until the stitching ripped.

I heard the sound of fabric ripping and I screamed as my naked body was displayed in front of a crowd of strangers. My three days of freedom had made me soft and more vulnerable to being embarrassed. During those three days I had regained a good deal of my pride and self-respect. Because of that, being forcibly stripped and ogled by strangers had a far more potent emotional impact.

Being stripped naked in front of a crowd of strangers was outrageous and mortifying, but watching as my friends suffered the same disgraceful, public violation was a hundred times worse. Alya, Damon, Lolika and the other slaves were all my friends and to watch helplessly as they were seized, manhandled, overpowered and stripped naked for the coarse entertainment of prurient strangers was heartbreaking.

"Alya!" I screamed and attempted to reach out to her, only to be pulled back and hauled further and further away, my bare feet being dragged uselessly across the floor as my captors overpowered me.

Then, adding to my humiliation, I noticed that there were members of the Sklavian media with camcorders, filming my re-enslavement. My wrists were bound behind my back and then a government agent grabbed my breasts from behind and squeezed it roughly. I gasped in startled pain as my poor, delicate flesh was abused, much to the delight of the camera crew.